Freakshow
by TsukinArchangel
Summary: "Oh," he said again, "I- I should really be freaking out now huh?"The man didn't respond he just removed the hand that covered his face and began undoing the braces on Stiles' wrists. "But I'm not," the leather clad man's hands stopped again and he looked up, deep crimson eyes meeting light amber gold. "You should be."


_**Starting Notes:** Hello all! Archie here! This is just a little something to let you know that no I'm not dead and No i have not quit any of my stories, they're just taking a long time to get out Betrothed part 3 is very intricate which btw PARTS ONE AND TWO SHALL HAVE EDITED VERSIONS UP SOON THANKS TO MY WONDERFUL FRIEND SUMMER SO BE ON THE LOOK OUT FOR THAT! Also I know this is kinda out of my usual Otp zone but in reality it's not, this was like my frist fandom, i just havent had inspiration in a while anyway I hope you enjoy and that u dont murder me for this. **ALSO TY TO VEBRI-CHAN FOR THE WONDERFUL COVER ART I shall add a link to her deviantart on my profile SO CHECK HER OUT SHE'S AMAZING!**_

**_Warning: Graphic violence, language, sequences of intense ritual(idk)_**

**_m/m don't like don't read okay? that simple._**

**_Summary: Stiles was never a normal teenager, but the day his father died made him even more abnormal than ever, changing his life... and the world, forever._**

**Freakshow**

_**-Ready to Play?-**_

Now if someone had told him that in twelve short, measly, seemingly ordinary hours, Stiles would find himself bound to a stone altar, gagged and weaponless - well he'd have probably stuck them the finger and told them to go fuck themselves. Then walked away. Slowly. And maybe a tad confidently. Because obviously he'd been getting lessons in being bad ass from Lydia, who, you all know, is the queen bitch of them all. See, it was either that or actually _listening_ to what the person had to say and that was definitely not going to happen. No way. No how. Not in a million years. Because doing that would be admitting that maybe -_ just maybe _- the fucked up nightmares, and wonky hallucinations actually meant something. That he wasn't actually totally _one hundred_ percent crazy. Only like ninety nine point nine nine nine percent. Cause by this time - yeah - he totally had some screws loose up there in that fancy little fleshy computer humans called _"The Brain". _Case in point, his best friend was named Scott McCall. Who just happened to not exist. Seriously.

Yep that's right, Scott McCall, to everyone else was just a figment of Stiles psychotic - or was that neurotic? - (he supposed it didn't really matter they were both words for being a mental basket case) overactive imagination.

A.k.a he was schizo.

Yeah... bonifide, _I see people who aren't there_. He was that kid from the _Sixth Sense _on crack, running around, screaming about the cloaked masked people out to get him; hiding in his closet buried under mounds of pillows and blankets, door locked until his parents unlocked it - he guessed it was no wonder why that kid was never doped up like Stiles was. Just because you talk to dead people doesn't mean you're insane._ Obviously_. Even if it usually kinda does, but hey, Stiles wasn't you're everyday kid and that boy knew how to keep a secret.

It's funny that they all seem to forget the part where they saw Stiles floating a foot in the air.

Or that his eyes would flash gold and things would mysteriously burst into flame.

People tended to ignore those bits, probably didn't want to deal with the _Oh shit my child must be the spawn of the devil - _they'd obviously rather think that he was just crazy.

Normal. Treatable. _Human_. Crazy.

Now weren't his parents an optimistic bunch?

Anyway if someone had told him that in twelve hours - seven hundred twenty minutes - (or forty three thousand two hundred seconds), he'd be facing eminent death via human sacrifice, well he'd probably, maybe - possibly - end up laughing hysterically in their face -

- And promptly drop to his knees, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet while covering his ears and singing _"I can't hear you! I can't hear you!" _over and over again until they disappeared. Laughing like the obvious lunatic he was. Singing because everyone expected that of him. Expected him to snap and end up back in the nuthouse again.

Because doing that was easier than admitting that maybe, just maybe, the things he saw, the weird premonitions, the flashes of events to come that had plagued him all his life were true. That maybe, just maybe they meant something.

That maybe the one moment he'd been dreaming about almost daily since the night his mother died was actually upon him. That what he'd known from the beginning was confirmed. That no matter how many pills they popped in his mouth, no matter how many brain-scans or blood tests or therapists he saw - he wasn't crazy. Not really.

Just... really, _really, _different.

And that was okay... he supposed.

It was probably why he liked superheroes so much. In their worlds, no matter what obstacle they faced - whether it came from within or without them - they managed to overcome, to beat the bad, knock down the treachery, snap the neck of evil, and they were loved for it. They weren't shunned, they weren't seen as demons lurking in the night, but as _Gods_, invincible, indestructible, always there if you needed them.

Well maybe all but Batman, but then again he was kind of a shade of gray to start with.

Yeah... he loved Batman.

Now the only problem was, superheroes didn't exist, they were all just an illusion, an escape from the _too harsh to be fake _reality - for those moments when you just can't cope with it anymore. It made you feel like there was actually someone who cared, or gave you hope that maybe tomorrow someone would come to your rescue and get rid of the bullies that plagued your life. And no matter how hard you try to fit in, or to show the world that you aren't as much of a freak as everyone thinks you are... trying just makes it all worse. He would know.

He's tried.

Spastic. That's one of the kinder nicknames he's been given. Eccentric. That one's from the teachers who can't flat out say that they agree with the children when they call him a loon. Crazy. Psycho. Spazz-hazz (he doesn't even understand that one). Oh and can't forget the all time favorite, FreakShow.

They're just names though. Just names. They can't really hurt him. No they can't. Not by themselves. No. It's the looks that hurt him. The backhand snickers. The laughs. The notes and messages. Rumors. Pictures. Imitations._ Hey look it's FreakShow_. (turn away/cower in fear) _Hey FreakShow! You make any new imaginary friends?! _(dumb) _Spazz-hazz feeling twitchy today? _(true, always true)

He'd keep walking though. Un-phased, unperturbed. Seemingly so at least. He'd bite back with sarcasm. Punch with wit. Dodge with indifference. He was actually fairly proud of himself, not everyone could come up with such sharp remarks so fast. They say sarcasm is the weapon of geniuses.

Or something like that.

Maybe no one says that. Maybe that's all in his head.

Just like everything else.

It hurts though, every time someone turns away from him as he comes near is just another arrow to the chest. Every laugh at his expense just adds to the ever growing weight on his back, slowly shadowing him, bringing him down, muting color, destroying feeling. No one would notice if he was twitcher than normal. No one noticed the bags under his eyes. The drawn in look of his cheeks. Sunken. A bruised purple outlining his cheekbones. The sweaty sheen on his brow. The pale almost ghostly pallor of his flesh. No one noticed.

Or they didn't care.

They chose to ignore it, to pretend it wasn't happening, that Stiles was wasting away to nothing as time went on. He couldn't sleep, he got no rest. The dreams. The dreams. Always the dreams. They were the worst. Sleep medicine didn't help, all that did was lock him in that hell. Keep him trapped, force his heart into working overtime.

God the panic.

The fear.

It overwhelmed him.

Just as it did now.

Stiles pulled at the binds on his wrists, knowing it was futile, he felt the rough thready gag with his tongue, tasted the dirt and age on it. How many other people had worn this very rope? How many other's blood was spilled by the very hands that now ran their hands over his naked body? He gave a muffled cry. He bit down on the gag. His body heaved. He tried to cough. Tears welled in his eyes. The gag was too rough, tasted too bad, like rot and... salt... metallic, grossly so. Oh god. Blood. He was tasting blood! Were they going to cut his head open? Is that how that got there? Or would the pain be so great that he'd bite and bite and bite the gag until his teeth broke and his gums bled and he drowned in his own fluids.

He wished he'd listened to his gut when it had told him not to go home. He should've listened to Scott. Scott'd tried to warn him, he'd said_ "Don't go in there!" _See. But he didn't listen, that didn't stop him, because by then he'd seen the blood. The footprints, the steady stream that leaked under the front door. He'd seen it and he'd been compelled to move closer, _no, no, no, no, no, no,_ on his lips. Only one person lived with him. There was only one person whose blood that could be.

Tunnel vision, that was how he'd describe the moment, the blood rushing in his ears, sounds dulled to almost nothing as he took out his keys with shaky fingers, shaking off his friend's hands, brushing him aside as he fumbled with the lock. Once. (too high) Twice. (too low) Three times, (dammit hands) he missed, before getting it in the lock, his fingers quivering and sweaty, heartbeat pounding in his ears, heart in his throat. Adrenaline fueled him, it was the only reason he hadn't fallen into a panic attack yet.

The door opens.

Stiles screamed. He thinks. He's pretty sure at least. It's all a blur.

He stumbles back as his fathers dead body falls forward, naked, paper thin threads holding him up snapping, circles and symbols of a sinister almost demonic nature etched into his flesh, still pumping blood, still a bright crimson. The body was warm, the expressionless look on his face chilling Stiles to the bone. Eyelids cut away. Eyes replaced with stones. Mouth set in a line of unearthly peace. The peace of death.

He screamed; Scott tugged on his arm (work legs work! Idiot move!), begging him to move, but he couldn't, his eyes were glued to the spot, legs plastered to the floor beneath his feet. Paralyzed, blood staining his soles. He was vaguely aware of the scent of burning. Of screams that weren't his own. He fell to his knees, the blood soaking through his jeans, coloring his hands crimson.

Dizzy, he swooned, tears streaming freely down his face, blurring his father's form. He could see it. He was dead. So, so dead. Just like his mother. A broken sob escaped his throat. Alone, he was all alone, and so close to being a free man too. No one would want him. He was the weirdo, crazy, insane, talking to people not there. He'd starve. He'd lose sight of who he was he'd -

Stiles felt a rough hand grab his shirt collar and haul him back. A gloved hand wrapped itself around his mouth. He struggled, he kicked, but it was like kicking a brick wall, nothing but painful to him. He thinks someone tries to stop them. He heard the cry of_ Stop! _Felt the temporary release of pressure on his neck as whoever it was struck his captor.

That person ended up dead.

His dad's genitals were gone.

So were both of his middle fingers.

Everything went black.

And that's how he'd ended up here. Gagged. Tied to a stone table (maybe a fucked up altar?) like something from Narnia - naked - arms and legs bound and spread to form an X, five cloaked figures surrounding him. One directly behind where his head rested so he had to tilt his head to the limits back to see him... or her, the other four standing directly in front of a limb, forming a sort of loose star shape around him, wicked sharp looking blades in their hands; Stiles whimpered.

It wasn't so much the being naked that scared him. He didn't even feel particularly violated physically (he supposed it was the nerves) it was the fear of impending doom that hovered over him. Were they going to take out his eyes and chop off his penis just like they did his father? Would he be nothing but a bloody heap by the time they were finished? Would he be begging for death?

It was the fear of the unknown that truly scared him. He hated change, he hated not knowing, even if his life was a hell, it was _his _hell. Predictable. He knew not to enter through the front gate at school, knew to change last, give as much time for everyone else to finish before he went in himself. The back of the room was his friend. The road his reprieve. Lunch was noisy. The food was gross. It was _ordinary._

And he liked it that way.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to yell to his captors,_ "What are you going to do to me?!" _like heroes always did in the comics. They'd tell him (while laughing darkly with cheap movie voice changer) and he'd come up with some witty remark before saying someone would be on their way to save him, but he knew it was a lie. An illusion. Comic books were fairy tales. Yet he clung to them because as long as he believed, there was still hope.

Corny? Yes. Effective? More-so.

At least it kept him remotely sane, kept him from falling under the welcoming embrace of panic he felt bubbling just under the surface. His eyes followed the movements of the hooded people, they scanned his surroundings for some form of escape, something he could use to pin a location to this place.

The walls were dark, stone, cement, or wood he couldn't tell, there were too many shadows and they were too far away. The windows were tall, pale moonlight seeping through them, illuminating a few steps ahead. Torches stood erect around him, the shadows dancing off his captors in an even more sinister fashion. Against his bare flesh he felt grooves in the stone, like cuts... or maybe symbols. Stiles gulped, he didn't want to think about what that meant.

He couldn't see the floor, not really, and anything directly behind him was being obscured by the figure blocking his sight in that direction, in other words, he was screwed. Stiles gave another experimental pull on the braces on his wrists. Nothing. They just bit deeper into his flesh. He let out an exasperated sigh and lay still, if he could he'd have bitten his lip, but that was impossible at the moment, the only thing he could bite on right now was the gag in his mouth. The gag that was rubbing his skin raw. He swallowed.

What were they waiting for? His heart hammered in his chest like crazy and his throat felt parched. Flutter. Flutter. Flutter. It beat against his rib cage like a prisoner aching for freedom. Stiles squirmed against the table, stone rubbing against his bareback and buttocks, the motion gaining the attention of the eyes that surrounded him. Creepy. That was creepy. He couldn't see their expressions, couldn't see them looking, but he could _feel _them, and it scared the crap out of him.

One of the figures (the one that hurt his neck to see) moved, their clothes ruffling loudly as the fabric rubbed against each other, the person's throat clearing. "It's time," Male. Definitely male. "The moon is at its zenith, the time to awaken the Morningstar is upon us." He turned his attention to Stiles. "Be prepared. The arrival of the Fallen One can only be paved in blood. The blood of the angel Azrael. Blood you posses."

He nodded to the others and the other four cloaked figures raised their wrists to the sky, high enough for the moonlight to touch the paled flesh they now exposed to the night.

The first figure nodded again and said, "begin."

Simultaneously they slit their wrists. Well fuck. If that wasn't confirmation that this was some sort of demented kinky cult he didn't know what was.

Stiles gasped, the sound muffled by the gag, his eyes widening as the blood spurted from the open wounds, trickling down onto his own skin. It was warm.

"In the face of the night we offer ourselves humbly oh lord of the deep, blood of our blood, life of our life, take what you may and take your fill."

A flash of silver, lightning quick, and four red lines bloomed on Stiles skin, the Priest's (as he'd decided to call them) moving so fast the movement was a blur. Just, one moment his skin was creamy and smooth, the next red was flowing freely, two long strands on the junction between his elbows and wrists, another one on each leg between his knee and his ankle. He let out a strangled cry, more out of surprise than anything else. The pain didn't register. Only the fear. A fear that was almost a tangible thing.

_"'Abraham set apart seven ewe lambs from the flock'_."

Stiles' body screamed run, but he couldn't, move, there was no escape try as he might as they circled him. To twist away, to remove his binds, to struggle, but it was useless. Impossible. Hopeless. One step, another four cuts. His chest, his thighs, his shoulders. Torture, traumatizing.

Hell.

_"'He replied, "Accept these seven lambs from my hand as a witness that I dug this well.'"_

The circles had begun now. The strangely intricate patterns on his flesh, artistic in their deformity, Stiles watched transfixed and numb as a new world of red cascaded from the tips of the knives to the canvas of his flesh. Swirls and dives that seemed to breathe with each rapid breath he took. Like magic.

They felt alive.

_ "'Then they are to take some of the blood and put it on the sides and tops of the doorframes of the houses where they eat the lambs.'"_

Stiles gasped, his skin growing hot. So, so hot. Swirling. Everything was still swirling. Was that bone? So many cuts. Why? Why? Why? His blood seeped around the altar, moving in rivulets, sliding, gliding, he imagined her heard a deep throaty laugh. He thought he felt a slight nip from the rock face; he watched as the rock drank from the spoils greedily, the fluid disappearing into the inner workings of the facade.

"_'Then ye shall sacrifice one kid of the goats for a sin offering, and two lambs of the first year for a sacrifice of peace offerings.' _We now offer you the lamb, and goat, our lives yours to take. Blood of our blood, yours is yours, life of our life, we give to you."

Blurry. The world was turning blurry. He must really be delusional now. So much blood loss. Anemia. A joke. Ha. Vampire suffering from anemia. Scattered thoughts. He could've sworn four of the Priests just killed themselves.

A hysterical laugh left his lips as he watched four bodies slump down beside him. They were so limp...

Only one Priest remained. The talker. He looked down at Stiles, and though the boy couldn't see it, he smiled. He was so close to achieving his goal. The boy with the blood of death in his veins was the pure lamb they seeked. They had fertility. They had life. Now all they needed was a pure heart and welcoming vessel.

The Fallen One would be pleased with his choice he believed.

The Priest gripped his blade tighter, knuckles turning white, and took off his hood. What did he care if the boy saw what he looked like? It wasn't like he'd be alive long enough to do anything about it. He smirked. The boy's widening eyes and renewed struggles at the reveal were music to his ears.

"And the Lord O' on high gave the Fallen dominion over the Earth. The keys to reign free and supreme over the wretched immorality that dwelled within and thus I grant you these keys again, and welcome you again to our world!"

The knife was raised; Stiles' eyes tracked the movement, he saw the trajectory, aimed right over his heart. Awful. Painful. Fear inducing. Stress sweat all over him, like a fountain, the despair so thick he could almost feel it like a physical thing.

"Morningstar! Fallen One from the heavens! Cursed to reside in the depths of the fiery abyss I offer you the heart of this innocent, who is blood of the angel Azreal, the sacred lamb you seek! Take this offering and feast upon his virgin heart and may it renew you sevenfold as the Mark of Cain repelled!"

Stiles closed his eyes.

The knife swung down.

He felt the pinch of flesh as the point kissed his skin, drawing his life, deeper, deeper, it went deeper and it really fucking_ hurt_. Tears streamed down his face, wiping away the dirt and dried blood, dying them with impurities. A wail left his throat, long and mournful, bemoaning his fate, the fate of his wretched existence and how it ended. He supposed in some sort of weird twist ending it made sense. For him to die alone. No one worried, no one caring, just like it started, he was alone. All alone. No.

That was wrong.

He wasn't alone.

He still had his demons.

His fingers dug and gripped at the altar, nails chipping, his muscles tensing and un-tensing, knees bending, back arching, his body trying to writhe away from the foreign sensation, the sensation that with ever beat of his heart, every thump, came closer to ending him. Past the layers of skin, through muscle, cutting veins, thrusting through bone, closer, closer to stopping the thing he needed most to survive - his heart.

Light grew faint. Faces blurred; he could see the truth of this demonic Priest's soul. See it tainted black, relishing as the flame of his life grew ever fainter, eating it whole, leaving nothing but emptiness, and death. Stiles closed his eyes, resigned to his fate, the pain had started to fade, (the blood loss made him cold) if he listened close he could almost hear the sounds of his mother and father calling out to him. Calling him home...

Fading, numbness spreading (this is the end this is the end this is the end) the string was thinning, his breaths were leaving he was dying (but it was okay. Okay. Okay. Okay?)

Jagged edges lurched, thrusting, stabbing, searing, burning white hot pain (burn like a fire red poker) and Stiles eyes shot open, a scream on his lips, the blade suddenly cutting through and out of him, slashing to the left, clattering to the floor, his nipple cut in half, blood spewing from the wound (it hurts it hurts it hurts so much). His vision swam out of focus and he bit the gag in his mouth forcefully, trying with all his might to break through the haze of pain, force his mind to work properly but - (it hurt it hurt it really fucking hurt)

Stiles forced himself to take a breath (one at a time In and Out), thinking - thinking hurt. Thinking took to much energy, the pain couldn't - wouldn't - distract - (work brain work). In and out. In and out. Out. Out. In. Breath. In. Out. IN. IN. _IN! _The edges of his vision swam with tears. Short staccato breaths bordering on hyperventilation where all he could manage. Not a scream. Never a scream, it hurt too much to scream. All he could do was lay there, grit his teeth, and breath. Work through the pain. In. Out. In. Thought.

(What happened?)

In. Out. In. Out. Whimper. Progress. Thought.

(Why'd he stop?)

In. Out. In. Out. Vision clearing. Pain was leaving. Pain was numbing.

(Was that good? Was that bad?)

In. The chords on his necks began to relax. Out. Hissed breath, and his head landed back on the stone altar with a thump (ouch). In. Rustling, faint, but there. Out. Open your eyes.

The first thing he noticed was that the Priest was slumped over the altar, head first, bloody gash through the back of his neck, blood darkening his already dark robes, with his arms and legs hanging limply at his sides - dead. That's why he'd stopped torturing Stiles. The shock of death must've forced him to jerk the knife suddenly and harshly... Which brought him to the next thing he noticed.

Himself.

Bruised, bloodied, and in _serious _need of medical attention. Was that bone? God he hoped it wasn't. (it was it was don't lie don't lie) How the hell was he supposed to move - escape - whatever, with _bone _and _guts _virtually running out of him? Okay that was an exaggeration, no guts where in danger of falling out (except maybe his heart... he didn't want to look there though, that thought scared him). But. Bone? Really? _Bone?_ (It was bone wasn't it.) God, he was _never_ going to become a doctor. (avoid surgeries at all costs).

Rustling, he heard the rustling again. His head snapped up, a new torture, a new torment? Why? Why? Why? Panic built, but -

"Calm down," a gruff voice. Male. Deep, with a hint of awkwardness, like he wasn't really sure how he was supposed to use his mouth to communicate with other people. Like words were foreign on his tongue. "Your heartbeat is... obnoxious, I can't hear anything over it."

Stiles' gulped, eyes drawn inexplicable to the voice, to the man (not calm not calm scared very scared). His back was turned to him, but he could feel and hear the other man fiddling with the constricts on his ankles, his fingers thick yet nimble, obviously used to doing tasks like these easily, quickly, and efficiently.

"You're not calming down."

Stiles pulled his attention away from watching the other man (assumed older you don't know) undo his binds to look up at the back of his head. Black hair, cut so it did nothing but cover the nape of his neck, only a fringe of olive skin revealed before the tough leather jacket he wore sealed it all away.

It was a simple garb really - all black, all leather from the looks of it, able to block most physical hits, and deter few knife slashes or stabs, but able to do very little in the realm of blocking a high speed projectile. He supposed it was too keep him relatively nimble, anything much tougher would make it virtually impossible to move with ease.

Strapped to the mans waist was a belt, one interwoven with silver (thread, metal? real? IDK) braided throughout it; two small battle axes hung from it on his right hip (medieval much? weird is weird). Stiles was beginning to feel like he'd been kidnapped by a strange cult of fanatics with an obsession with ancient Aztecan horror movies and the Renaissance Fair. Seriously. (outfits? where did they get these outfits?)

A sharp sudden click and the first brace gave way, the thick twine and metal falling to the side and Stiles breathed a sigh of relief, he hadn't realized just how tense and sore he'd been stretched until the pressure finally began to dissipate. He wiggled his foot experimentally and took in a shallow breath, those cuts really stung, the pull of skin bending and molding for movement widened the breaches in his flesh. He winced.

The man cleared his throat and began working on undoing the next brace. Crap, vertigo, he was getting dizzy. "Are you okay?" The leather clad man asked, "Your heart did something weird." He sounded even more uncomfortable if that was possible, apparently offering comfort was not one of his strong suits.

Stiles set his mouth, and glanced down at his crimson lined chest. "Peachy," He drawled, voice reeking of sarcasm, his head titled just slightly his eyes screaming_ duh I'm so not okay! _"Looking like a slasher dummy is one of my favorite pastimes - just love the S and M feel of it man, totally my idea of a Friday night out."

The man paused his unraveling, and Stiles saw his head cock slightly to left as he considered something. After a moment he began again, fingers swiftly undoing the knots and locks that wrapped themselves around him.

"You have a weird sense of fun," He grumbled, unlocking Stiles' other leg with a satisfied huff.

Stiles stretched, wincing again, a low moan leaving his lips, one that was both pained and pleasured, the pressure now truly off his legs, and he bent them up at the knee. "Oh my god, man, that feels awesome," He wiggled his toes some more and forced his attention back up, landing on the head of the nameless hero (or fucked up butcher you never know), "and, dude, I was being sarcastic, you know - sarcasm, greatest invention of the human race? S and M ... no, not my thing."

The man in black's shoulders tensed and Stiles could see the other man working his mouth, irritation obvious in his stance. "Do you ever shut up?"

Stiles yanked at the wrist binds, wishing he could tap his chin and realizing he couldn't; he sighed, settling with a somewhat half-hearted, "no, not really, it's my most endearing quality."

"They must all be brain dead," He replied dryly.

Stiles smirked. "That's assuming I have any friends to start with."

"Don't you?"

Stiles opened and closed his mouth, before responding. "That's - that's not important right now dude - seriously, arms bound, confetti chest, shit man, bone, definitely bone right there. Kinda need a doctor like... now, soooo if you could get back to the rescuing that would be really freaking awesome. You know anytime between now and when I bleed out?"

A growl, and the leather man raised a clawed hand to his temples rubbing them like a mother who was dealing with a rather petulant child.

Wait.

_Clawed?_

Stiles gasped, no, not a gasp - that wasn't something Stiles did - it was more like a very feminine meep - not a squeak - a meep, very different, and when he spoke again his voice came out a tad higher than normal. "My what large... _claws_ you have there... you one of those cosplayers or something? Cause like, that's... a really good... you know... job... with... the... er... claws... yeah."

The mystery man's head turned ever so slightly and Stiles saw the corner of his lips turn up into a scowl... one... with... fangs, Stiles squinted, yep fangs, those were _way_ to pointy for normal canines and now that he thought of it the dude was abnormally hirsute. Like all over his hands and that five o'clock shadow that was all stubbly and covered a good portion of his face, just - oh crap, he was totally in like a demonic little red riding hood story and he was totally the grandma about to be eaten by the wolf. Cause that's what the man was wasn't he? A werewolf? Or... something.

"You said you could hear my heartbeat," Stiles whispered, licking his lips nervously before staring up at the man before him. "Were you being serious?"

The nameless fellow nodded. "I can smell your fear too," he added gruffly in that awkward baritone he had.

Stiles took a breath. "Would you... w-would you, turn around?"

Stiles' rescuer ran a hand down his face a sort of exasperated manner a drawn out breath escaping his lips before he gave a slight nod and obliged.

Stiles gasped. "Oh," it was all he could manage really. The mystery man still had a hand covering his face and his head was titled slightly in a direction that said he really didn't want to be stared at, but Stiles could see for sure, see the claws at the ends of his fingers, the slight peak of a fang below a quivering lip as if suppressing a growl; how his ears were just a little too pointy to be ordinary.

"Oh," he said again, "I- I should really be freaking out now huh?"

The man didn't respond he just removed the hand that covered his face and began undoing the braces on Stiles' wrists.

"But I'm not," the leather clad man's hands stopped again and he looked up, deep crimson eyes meeting light amber gold.

"You should be."

Stiles smirked. "Well, my brain isn't known for doing the smart thing," he laughed, "yeah it's usually the really dumb, irrational, impulsive thing that wins." He grinned up at his "hero". "So... I'm not scared. Not anymore. Though that might have something to do with adrenaline and shock... and I may or may not be mildly concussed, they did knock me out to get me here..."

"Just shut up."

The leather cladded mystery rescuer growled again (default setting yes) and viciously clawed the remaining brace off his wrist. Stiles sat up (naked remember naked) and raised a brow in a_ really- that- was- supposed- to- scare- me _way, only to be met with the dull bitch stare of the man that had come to his aid on that said _yes- yes- it- was_.

Stiles shook his head (regret regret bad idea dizzy) before stopping, slightly green, and holding out his hand. "Stiles."

Red eyes stared at the hand, then back at the boy, then back at the hand, looking unsure of what to do with it.

Stiles rolled his eyes, a smirk on his lips that made his otherwise harsh words playful. "You shake it, smarty, you know- a handshake?"

He growled and huffed before reaching out to take it. Stiles watched in fascination as the claws and hair retracted back into his flesh, leaving him looking... well hot. Stiles might've gaped slightly, cause under all that fur and fangs and claws was a really hot looking bad boy biker type who didn't look to be much older than him. And he was stubbly. Mmm. Manly stubble.

"Stiles," He says as hot leather biker hero shakes his hand, he thinks some of what he was feeling showed up on his face cause said hot biker hero leather dude was giving him a weird look.

"That's a weird name," He mumbled dropping his hand.

Stiles raised another brow, evil smirk of mischief on his face. "And yours is?"

"Syrel."

Stiles snorted.

"What?"

"Dude, and you say mine's weird?"

Syrel's face scrunched in confusion. "What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing but the fact that you sound like an alien from Krypton."

A blank look.

"Superman?"

A blink.

"DC Universe man! Comics!"

Nothing.

"Oh my god, you aren't from around here are you?"

"No."

"Are you going to tell me where?"

"No."

"Well I'm calling you Derek - got it - no one who doesn't even know what a comic book is, is allowed to wield the name of 'El'!"

Sy- _Derek_, rolled his eyes and turned around, "come on, I need to get you out of here."

Stiles nodded (naked omg why don't you get clothes) and stood up-

- only to crumple to the ground right after.

"Shit." His whole world was spinning and his body felt clammy and everything ached. Everything, the adrenaline was leaving, the numbing effects of shock disappearing and all that was left was a building sense of fear and agony. A shallow breath and his vision swam, a small whimper leaving his throat and Derek turned around a surprised then angry expression flashing across his face, berating himself for not thinking this through.

"Give me your hand."

Stiles groaned and lifted an arm, though the trajectory was totally off. He heard an undertone of some foreign angry sounding words and felt strong arms carefully lift him off the floor.

"Hey Derek, is my vision supposed to be getting splotchy?"

(His world was turned upside down)

"Is it cold to you?"

(Scotty boy where are you man?)

Hysterical giggling. "Why am I naked. Hee, haa, heee hee."

(His life went to hell then kept going down)

"Hold on," That was Derek, Derek was talking now.

(Let's see, his father's dead)

Tears went down his face. "Hey, Derek, my dad's dead."

(He was kidnapped)

"I don't know where I am."

(Tortured)

"Everything hurts, everything hurts."

(saved)

"Who are you Derek?"

(A gust of fresh air open your eyes open them)

Stiles eyes open. He gasped.

(Nothing else remained)

**Freakshow**

_**-Ready to Play?-**_

_**End?**_

_**A/N 2:**_

_And yep! That's the end? I may or may not continue this, it depends on if I'm motivated, if anyone wants more of it, and what my time allows, cause let's be resonable... 3 fics atm one that's amonster 2 that are wonderfully short chapters of 4k words each sooo yeah. Also if any of you are reading this are my Perico fan readers then if you want to message me I can totes give you the intro to part 3 of betrothed if you're interested, or the first paragraph of Chap 18 of falling into nothing._

_ALSO IF YOU LIKE THIS PLEASE CHECK OUT MY OTHER FICS! AND READ AND REVIEW PLEASE!_

_THANKS AGAIN!_

_-ARCHIE_


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